


and at the last moment, an angel

by peskylilcritter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 10:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peskylilcritter/pseuds/peskylilcritter
Summary: In which John finds a little bookshop selling used books and it sort of saves his life. Twice.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 112





	and at the last moment, an angel

**Author's Note:**

> yes good omens crossovers are apparently just a thing i do now. acd holmes is in progress. feel free to suggest stuff if you like.

On any other day John might have gone into the shop out of curiosity.

But today the politest word he has to describe his life is ‘shit’, and he hasn’t got the energy for curiosity. Instead, he’s got Harry’s voice in the back of his head – a bit mean, a bit drunk, just like the real thing – reminding him that he hasn’t done or seen or experienced anything at all interesting in weeks. So maybe it’s spite that convinces him to pause, stare at the two stairs in front of the door for a moment, clench his jaw and walk in.

He nearly gets knocked over by a tall skinny redhead wearing sunglasses (Sunglasses? Inside a dim little bookshop on an overcast autumn day? Why?) and has to catch himself on a bookshelf. The wanker doesn’t even apologize.

“I’m so sorry,” says a voice from further inside the shop. “My friend is not usually so impolite; I’m afraid I rather upset him.”

John shrugs. Not like he hasn’t had worse; these days he’s more or less invisible to most people anyway.

The man – blond, a little less tall, a lot less skinny than his friend – gives John an oddly intense once-over but doesn’t say anything else and, once John pointedly starts scanning the titles on the shelf he’s still holding on to, leaves him alone to browse and busies himself at the ancient manual cash register.

Weird bloke, even for a used books seller in Soho.

Eventually John realizes that something about the books is weird.

(In about two weeks, once the thrill of his first criminal case has worn off a bit, he’ll remember this moment and resolve to never ever tell Sherlock about any part of it.)

A truly bizarre number of the books are bibles. The rest are prophecies.

Also, there’s absolutely no duplication at all. Every single book is unique. That’s weird even by weird used book seller standards.

And, because that isn’t bizarre enough enough, most of these books have the look of something one shouldn’t touch without special gloves. Most of them look like they’re straight from a museum collection.

“Excuse me,” the book seller says right behind John, making him jump. His cane clatters to the floor. The man bends to pick it up with an apology and comes up looking a bit flushed. “I am sorry to startle you but I believe you might find something a bit more to your liking in one of these two rows.” He gestures.

John nods, manages a little smile, tightens his grip on his cane. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The man smiles brightly and nods, then goes back to his cash register.

*

Only a half hour later he leaves the shop with two books, carefully wrapped in brown paper and stacked inside a paper bag.

He’s still a little unclear on what, exactly, just happened but when he gets home he makes a cup of tea, sits in bed with one of the books and doesn’t even notice that his leg doesn’t hurt at all until morning.

*

Aziraphale watches the soldier walk out of his shop with two books and wonders at himself. Two books sold to a single customer, for a price well below their value, even if they aren’t nearly as rare as most of his collection.

The young man seemed like he needed them. Or at least like he needed something.

Books are the only thing Aziraphale has to give besides miracles. Besides, sometimes a book is just the thing to soothe an aching soul.

*

Walking away from Sherlock’s funeral, John suddenly cannot face going back to their- his empty flat. There’s nowhere else to go either so he just walks, lets his feet carry him where they will and replays Sherlock’s ‘suicide note’ over and over in his head.

In the minutes and hours immediately after he couldn’t have repeated a single word of that last conversation if his life depended on it, if Sherlock’s life depended on it, but now he can recite it word for word, pauses and inflections and all. He suspects he’ll never forget any of it as long as he lives.

Somehow he ends up in Soho, staring at the dusty display window of a used bookshop.

He remembers, suddenly and vividly, his first visit here. He’s pretty sure now that those two books kept him alive long enough to meet Sherlock.

The gratitude is no surprise but the sudden anger is.

He’s been angry since Sherlock stepped off the roof but up to this moment he’s been angry at Moriarty, at Sherlock, at Mycroft, at himself. He’s never been angry at having met Sherlock in the first place.

For an immeasurably long moment he stands there and glares at the window, at his own haggard reflection, wishing he’d never walked inside two years ago. Wishing, for the first time ever, that he’d never met Sherlock at all.

“Alright there, mate?” someone says next to him. A quick glance tells him it’s the skinny redhead.

“Yeah,” John says. Oh Christ, he’s crying. He clears his throat and says, “I’m fine.”

The redhead snorts. “Riiight,” he says, “and that’s why you’re crying at a bunch of dusty old books.”

John shifts to glare at him directly. “Piss off.”

The man shrugs. He’s wearing the exact same sunglasses as two years ago.

For a second John seriously considers punching him.

“Crowley? Are you coming in?”

Bloody hell, it’s the book seller. John decides not to punch anyone, mostly because he really doesn’t want to see Lestrade right now. Or worse, Donovan.

“Oh, hello,” the book seller continues, clearly having spotted John. “What a surprise to see you here, young man.”

“Oh, is this the fellow you sold your books to?” the redhead says, eyebrows now visible above his glasses. He turns to John. “You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve told him to stop calling his hoard of books a shop. I don’t think he’s sold a single one of his precious treasures since you.”

“Come now, Crowley, leave the poor man alone. I’m sure he doesn’t need you nattering at him. Besides, I’ve got tea waiting.”

“Don’t worry,” Crowley replies, grinning again. “He was feeling much worse before I started ‘nattering at him’.”

The book seller looks disapproving but John realizes that Crowley’s right.

The beep of John’s phone in his pocket saves the situation from becoming awkward. He fishes it out, squints at the text and says, “I’ve got to go, sorry. See you around.” He gives them both a quick wave and walks away as if he’s in a hurry.

Best see what bloody Mycroft wants before he kidnaps John again.

*

Aziraphale and Crowley watch him leave until he turns a corner.

Then Aziraphale says, "I certainly hope his friend tells him he isn't dead soon."

Crowley thinks about the burning bookshop and says, "Yeah. You said something about tea?"


End file.
